


to the break of the day.

by theydie



Category: Inanimate Insanity (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Objects as Humans, Yin-Yang has DID - Dissociative Identity Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theydie/pseuds/theydie
Summary: maybe he should’ve thought this out more, or maybe should’ve taken into account how unpredictable yang is, or that the universe is constantly trying to screw him over.“did you expect me to say something about it?”“yes?” and it makes yang feel like the unreasonable one.
Relationships: trophy/yang (inanimate insanity)
Kudos: 10





	to the break of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> mostly wrote this to entertain myself and some friends, enjoy. 
> 
> clarifying notes to start with:  
> yin and yang share a body through having did (dissociative identity disorder,) they’re written as separate alters/people. both exhibit bfrb, namely skin picking and scratching. 
> 
> oh, and i use they/them for both yin and yang. 
> 
> i don’t think anything else needs to be cleared up, but if you're confused you can comment and i’ll do my best to respond.

yang watches their fingers twitch, something crossing the circuit without a proper outlet. electricity tracks across their palm, downward, pouring out of their wrist into the forearm. they blink, opening and closing their hand, mesmerized by the way skin pulls across muscle. a hand separate from their own reaches the shoulder, yang startles - feels sudden urgency - the instinct to whirl, wail, lash out, but they don’t. the fog puts everything through a filter, and they turn to see trophy there. 

their own unchecked habits have left them in too many compromising positions, under the scrutiny of too many, and it’s overwhelming - it’s an unbelievable amount of shame, guilt and embarrassment, enough to flood. yang beats down on themself for it, in private, always, but the stress seeps out from closed doors. it’s an endless cycle of stress, then taking it out on themself, and the two things becoming an endless line of dominos. it’s safe to say yin and yang have enough baggage to extend into eternity. 

trophy blinks. 

he’s concerned, for a moment, before his expression pulls back. trophy’s guarded, yang is too. they watch him mask the emotion into something more neutral without comment, understanding the instinct. his hand stays, gentle, despite his regular persona. yang’s own face softens, and there’s the sting of nails on canvas. it needles into an overwhelming itch, a searing scratch. 

trophy glances down, they do the same. red streaks bare themself, almost glowing as the lines begin to smart. old scars and recent breaks don’t out-shine the coming comets, spots meager stars. 

embarrassment swells in yang’s chest at the thought of being caught, of overlooking their own habits in public. they’re defensive, frowning for a fraction of a second before trophy interrupts.

“it’s fine, man.” they look back up, and all he does is study their face. worry close to fully concealed, kept in the corner of his eyes, the edge of his mouth.

there’s a spark, a fire forged at the base of their skull. it’s scalding, and the same itch stretches across their scalp. yang fidgets in place, shifting their weight, not wanting to shake off the hand on the shoulder. 

their mind has become too hectic, turning inside out, twisting into something unidentifiable. it’s a feeling stretching far past comfortable, encasing them in something only they can see, an invisible layer only to be rid of by scratch alone. yang defaults on their argumentative tone, something beginning to fizzle out as wires fray further. 

“it’s not.” spoken with too much force, hard on their tongue, quick in haste to feel normal, regain a sense of control. there’s a clash on the horizon, a sunrise in their peripheral - a predicted one, one they’ve grown to know. 

trophy only raises a brow, looking confused rather than reciprocating. he’s changed, he’d say, when it comes to shit like this. maybe it’s not so blatant on the outside, thoughts unheard, mental leaps and hurdles to let up going unseen. but he _has_ , and the realization is as loud as any alarm, when he doesn’t bite back. 

“uh,” a groan barely stifled, trophy tries to find the words as his mouth runs while his mind buffers. “it _is_ fine.” 

yang looks appalled. before they can be characteristically quick to anger, trophy interrupts.

“don’t make this awkward.” his tone screams ‘ _i’d rather not right now_ ,’ but all that comes is a pointed, “i don’t really care about that stuff, yang. it doesn’t bother me, so stop worrying.”

the bluntness catches yang off-guard, but more importantly, it registers as absurd. relief almost comes - _almost_ , something in yang wants to be thankful for the sentiment. they laugh, loud - evil, in their own words. none of it distracts enough though, doesn’t push past the threshold to keep the scratch from happening. and the stinging is beginning to pick up, starting to warm the surface left behind. that seems to satisfy whatever it is that compels, for now. yang doesn’t know whether to toss their head back and laugh harder, or shake their head in disbelief. 

trophy watches them stand between two decisions. he doesn’t really get it, can’t really wrap his head around what’s going on behind the front yang has built, continues to build. 

after a moment, of their cackling and trophy’s own dumbfounded laughs, _their_ hand is on _his_ shoulder. it’s only fair, they’d say, but not aloud. yang always finds themself mimicking, pretending to be someone they’re not - more often than they’d like to admit - but this, mirroring the gesture of hand on shoulder - it’s not the same - maybe it’s because trophy’s different. the reflection looking back doesn’t touch a sore spot. 

yang can’t place why, not now, needing the moment to pass. 

trophy huffs, making some vague comment about how weird this is, how odd they both are - how they’re so similar, the same, in the same strange boat. he could probably go on forever how because they’re two peas in a pod, and that means all is well - it gets on their nerves. 

yang doesn’t want to see themself in trophy, or in anyone for that matter. this way of thinking has repeatedly driven a wedge between them and yin. in their worst years, their first few after their formation, its worsened the spots in memory - the lapses between existing and not. stubbornness does a whole lot of bad. they don’t want to bend any more than they’ve had to, to put it plainly: yang doesn’t want to see themself in anyone. 

unlike trophy, they can admit to having baggage. it’s reflective of their self loathing - how much of trophy’s mannerisms remind them of their own, and how much they hate it and would rather ignore. 

they don’t need solidarity to be someone, or feel known. though, their situation is different, but to them, that shouldn’t matter. they know this disorganized logic wouldn’t make a lick of sense to him, to anyone, not even to someone trained to understand. it’s a conscious choice not to explain it, or ever try, and trophy, luckily, isn’t one to pry. it keeps the feeling that always unfurling just from coming loose entirely. 

trophy and yang’s usual banter becomes clunky then, conversation falling short of comfortable. both smile and gesture, but it’s all rather superficial. it’s apparent that something’s wrong, but neither are willing to acknowledge it. if you said it, they’d disagree, but that doesn’t make it any less true - they’re quick to pretend.

the two manage to make it back inside without much trouble. there’s a scene from point a to point b where yin comes into play, and yang is expelled from the equation entirely. it’s always embarrassing, especially in public and they’d rather not have to explain. yin braces themself for the worst, for invasive questions and odd looks, but trophy doesn’t live up to any of those expectations. to say it’s not equally comforting and nerve-wracking would be a lie. 

their skin spreads out over a layer of static, surface prickling as sensation needles into the sides. it’s a product of their anxiety, both mind and body trying to let go of the feeling by becoming a human-shaped scratching post. to their pleasant surprise, trophy isn’t as much of a dick as they remember. it’s almost alarming, just barely popping on their radar of suspicion. something, or rather someone, kicks them for even doubting his kindness - his patience, his willingness to put up with them at all. the ghost of someone comes as a surprise, but yin doesn’t need to be told twice, they’ll admit to be more trusting than their other half. 

that thought leaves their mind blank, briefly. 

if yang, of all people, trusts someone, then who’s yin to really doubt them?

trophy had tea prepared, apparently. he tends to take pride in all he does, this included. yin can’t help but humor and indulge, often giving instead of taking. complimenting comes easily, and they watch trophy preen. they’re friends, they realize, after taking a seat. the kitchen is rather small, but there’s a table put off to the side that’s normally for snack bowls and things of the type. 

conversation happens, had happened, but yin can’t recall a single thing that was said. 

he takes a chair and sits beside them, chews on the straw sticking out from his glass. whatever he tries to say is lost, still gnawing on the plastic before seeing yin’s clear confusion. trophy stops. then, because things are never perfect, he asks. 

“so..”

he starts, then stops. yin blinks, and suddenly the room has become an ocean, and this table an inescapable island they’d both been stranded on. this doesn’t occur to him, he continues despite the wave of something crashing onto the shore. it’s another instance where what’s going on inside completely overpowers what’s happening on the outside, they watch his lips move but none of the words register.

yin manages to be polite, despite getting a feeling. relying on their intuition, they reply with trepidation. 

“so? so, what, trophy?”

and, to their surprise, trophy almost looks shy. luckily, they’re not the kind to comment. 

“does yang like me, or?”

they can’t help but laugh - realizing a second to soon how rude it is. yin looks to him apologetically when his face goes red, understanding in an instant the misstep. with sorry eyes, they recollect themself.

“..really, trophy?”

the silence he gives is enough. yin looks into their glass, watches the ice bob and wonders why things never go the way they expect. maybe trophy’s different, subverts even yang’s expectations too and that’s why.. their mind blanks. that isn’t to say this is an entirely unwelcome experience, just new. dismissing the earlier thought, they take some time to focus on the feeling, the chill of its sides against their warm palms. yin can only imagine how nervous the guy must be, how much courage it takes to even outright ask - or, sort of..

finally, “i can’t speak for yang.”

trophy doesn’t seem to understand, not right away, but the indignant face falters. the edges of his expression loosening up only to be drawn back, a contemplative look left in its place.

they can sense his questioning.

decisive in their elaboration, leaving no room for argument, “it just doesn’t work like that for us.”

he’s caught between relief and not, question left unanswered. trophy’s not stupid, he can gather that he shouldn’t prod any further - but still, he wants to know. it’s the least they could do, he thinks, having had embarrassed him - he sweeps the thought away, ignores his entitlement and settles back into his seat.

“i get it,” trophy says.

they can tell he doesn’t actually, knows ultimately the concept is beyond him and others, sometimes even themself. yin can appreciate the subject drop, offering a lopsided shrug and half-hearted,

“sorry.”

said with a lilt that says ‘ _not really._ ’ it’s not that the apology is insincere necessarily, yin just knows this a brick wall for the both of them. while yang has lost some of his edge, yin has sharpened up. there’s no role reversal, both no longer at opposite ends, but equals. 

they remind themself that trophy shouldn’t have asked them this in the first place, because yin and yang aren’t extensions of each other - they’re separate, they’re individuals and more importantly they’re their own people. they bite their tongue, another apology at the end - it’s hard for yin to remember they’ve got to preserve their own feelings, too. his misunderstanding isn’t their fault, his prodding isn’t a byproduct they had part in. 

and despite their inner-back and forthing they still feel for him.

there’s a brief pause in conversation, where trophy continues to chew on his straw in earnest while yin is slowly regaining their bearings. his unease only pours, dissatisfied with what he’s been given and trying to cope through the uncertainties beginning to pile. before he can properly spiral, say something stupid and sabotage the scene already gone south, yin looks to him again. with a hand pointing to their cup.

“is this a new thing?”

trophy almost forgot they had tea at all, initially misinterpreting the question. he has an elbow to the tabletop, leaning on it, feeling the weight and focusing on the pressure. 

“what, the tea?” it’s put out so casually despite himself, mind still reeling. dimly, he notices they’ve finished their glass.

lamely, yin continues to try for small talk. “yeah, the tea.” 

the two fumble to regain the same synergy from before, failing for a few minutes before it picks up again. trophy’s thankful for the talking, it distracting him from the thoughts eating away at the back of his brain. he’s conflicted about numerous things, about how he feels - about how yang must feel, and, _oh, god_ , how yin must feel after he’d made a fool of himself. the feeling is greatly mind-numbing and not, all too much and yet enough. 

suddenly, trophy interrupts himself in the middle of a spiel about his growing tea collection.

“did you want something else?” 

and the way he speaks makes it sound like there’s a deeper question, some secret meaning that he’s begging yin to catch onto. they don’t, though, or if they do they don’t make any indication. sometimes he wonders if they’re playing dumb on purpose. it then dawns upon trophy that his subtle ministrations might just be that, subtle, _too_ subtle. he stews on the knowledge briefly before taking yin’s cup once they nod.

“thanks.” quiet and distant. their appreciation rings true, but yin’s starting to look more worn the longer this goes on. 

making them both another glass, trophy tries to weigh his options. and he continues to when the tea is seeping, and when he sits back down, and when yin keeps asking meaningless questions to further their small talk, and when they eventually thank him again, and when they wash their glass and inevitably excuse themself. and, and, and - he’s knee-deep in his own mind. the amount of what-if’s has grown into something immeasurable.

self reflection is a gateway to something trophy’s never ever really enjoyed, which is considering his impact on other people - how people can care about the things he does. he knows the basics, that he’s a jerk - always established himself as one, through and through. he’s convinced himself of this, but that aside? what else is there? he’s starting to think asking isn’t worth it, that maybe he doesn’t deserve it or even an answer.

the thought, much like a movie cliche, keeps him awake at night. though, his sleeping habits taken into consideration, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. time passes and as night falls, he’s figured out nothing new, still dissecting what little he had to begin with.

trophy’s no stranger to being a night owl, it’s just the circumstances are different. he’s sitting up before he knows it, following his regular routine. navigating through the halls, he bats around which tea would work best, what could knock him out quickest. as he gets closer to the kitchen, he notices light pooling out from the doorway. he pauses, if only for a second before continuing. 

it startles him when someone’s inside, more willing to deal with an empty room with a light left on. the person’s back is to him, but even through the lens of exhaustion he can make out who it is - who it could be. 

they turn and see trophy, going through the same stages of surprise. neither seemed to have expected this. there’s a stutter in their step, and their hands jump - almost dropping the mug in hand. trophy winces, expecting it to fall then explode onto the floor. it doesn’t, he focuses his eyes onto the figure again. they shift their weight idly, watching him watch them in silence as a second ticks by.

the awkward air does nothing for his mind still buffering. he’s uncertain of who’s there until a familiar gruffness greets him.

“how long have you been standing there?”

trophy blinks at yang, clapping a hand over his mouth before he fucking laughs over how ridiculous that was. he watches them bristle, before shaking the gesture off. 

“sorry,” he manages, putting some effort into keeping his voice down. that was equal parts stupid and startling. trophy steps out from underneath the door frame, moving toward the communal tea kettle. all he provides is, “it’s late.”

that doesn’t answer the question, if yang cares they don’t say a word. he half-expects them to chew him out for being awake still. instead they shuffle to the side, making room for trophy to do whatever he needs to. the countertop presses into their backside, they don’t seem too bothered, instead leaning into the edge. trophy makes his tea wordlessly, the tips of his ears hot. his exchange with yin did nothing to soothe his worries, and he can’t blame them even if he wants to - not that they’ve wronged him in any way, he just needs to push this onto someone else. it’s an instinct he’s been meaning to outgrow.

trophy finds himself feeling insecure, self conscious as yang looks at him again. he feels like he’s being scrutinized, being taken apart and put together in silence by stare alone. it takes him a moment to realize they’ve got a mug in hand, having had already forgotten about what had almost seconds, minutes what felt like hours before. a bag’s string hangs over the mugs edge. he can’t recall if yang was much of a tea drinker before they met. trophy tries not to dwell on it. 

his sense of time is a wreck, and so is he - he might even admit it if you pressed down hard enough. trophy watches them fit their hand through the cup handle, wondering how hot the surface must be - how their hand would fit into his, and if it’d warm them just the same. 

their free hand strays, working at a spot beside their wrist. the sleeve cuts right before then, and trophy watches them pick at something he can’t see. it’s not like him to prod at something so clearly private, not anymore, at least. 

by the time the hot water’s ready, an awkward veil has been hung over them both. their combined breathing seems to echo loud atop the silence, it does nothing for the uneasy air overflowing. they’re drowning rather than treading, anchored to the bottom of a pool by the problems they’ve created. 

trophy nudges their shoulder when he needs something to put the tea in, and they tilt to let him. he glances to yang from the corner of his eye, catches the soft color casted over their cheeks. drawing back, bringing his cup of choice to the counter, he weighs his options again. it’s just them two, alone, surrounded by tension neither are willing to point out. 

not yet, at least. he predicts one of them will snap soon.

  
yang can feel something, or rather _someone_ insist, an unexplainable force goading, an invisible voice betting against them. they stare into their drink, frowning at the taste left behind. it was a poor attempt to recreate the tea yin had before, but there’s a block between their memories, a blank space that they can’t quite fill. it’s not done right, they suppose it’s only fair they can’t make tea as good as trophy can.

trophy notices their scowl. he shoots them a look and they blink. willing their expression to stay neutral and failing, “what?”

“nothing,” he says. then trophy pauses, reconsiders his options for another countless time - thinks about if there are consequences to asking before going again. “what’s with the face?”

“i just look like this.” they argue, unable to see what he could be talking about. yang has never been able to grasp what they look like on the outside, even when put in front of a mirror it never felt right. there’s a disconnect that’s proven to be permanent, it’s only a symptom of the irreversible. their inner-berating goes over his head. trophy thinks the cluelessness is almost cute, _almost_. he redirects his focus, not wanting to get sidetracked.

“no, you made a face.” insisting, sure and certain. there’s a spot of silence for him to focus on pouring water, sound quiet as he carefully keeps it from spilling. trophy watches the tea bag sink for a single second before looking up. “what’s the matter, man?”

“...”

he wonders if yang is in one of those moods, the kind where poking has no reprieve. it might be too late to consider the fact, after all he already asked. yang is unresponsive for a short moment, seeming to be in deep thought. trophy waits, he has to, anyway. or rather, he _wants_ to. he could easily pack up and head to his room, ruminate there - but then he’d be alone. he’d be alone with fewer answers than before.

yang sighs, and it’s become a signal for him to listen. he glances up from his tea beginning to steep, strains his ears and studies their face. there’s not much that can hold his attention, but when it comes to yang - he feels the urge to be attentive. that fact doesn’t sink in deep, doesn’t occur to him at all even as he’s with baited breath. 

“earlier..”

another face is made, their thoughts scattered without a way to convey a single one. they’re at a loss for words, searching for the rest of their sentence between the floor tiles. trophy racks his mind, tries to retrace every step, second to second, reliving it all through an imaginary playback. he doesn’t say a word, has been friends with them long enough to know nothing gets them talking more than being prompted with silence. yang grunts, exasperated, then continues.

“with yin.” is all that’s said. trophy swallows around a pit forming, wanting more in the face of nothing. they sound conflicted, or he thinks so - he can’t tell, it’s hard to differentiate between that and the frustration, but that’s not what he should be caught on.

“oh,” quiet and vague, like he’s acknowledging a comment about the weather. trophy’s mind is sent into a flurry, his effort is funneled into playing it off. “you heard that?”

“ _heard_ about, i wasn’t there,” yang corrects, sharp in the way that it punctures the strange film they’d both been encased in. puzzled by something unseen, contemplating for another brief second. they smooth out the delivery as if trying the line again, doesn’t elaborate this time, “i heard about it.”

trophy notices their scowl. he shoots them a look and they blink. willing their expression to stay neutral and failing, “what?”

“nothing,” he says. then trophy pauses, reconsiders his options for another countless time - thinks about if there are consequences to asking before going again. “what’s with the face?”

“i just look like this.” they argue, unable to see what he could be talking about. yang has never been able to grasp what they look like on the outside, even when put in front of a mirror it never felt right. there’s a disconnect that’s proven to be permanent, it’s only a symptom of the irreversible. their inner-berating goes over his head. trophy thinks the cluelessness is almost cute, _almost_. he redirects his focus, not wanting to get sidetracked.

“no, you made a face.” insisting, sure and certain. there’s a spot of silence for him to focus on pouring water, sound quiet as he carefully keeps it from spilling. trophy watches the tea bag sink for a single second before looking up. “what’s the matter, man?”

“...”

he wonders if yang is in one of those moods, the kind where poking has no reprieve. it might be too late to consider the fact, after all he already asked. yang is unresponsive for a short moment, seeming to be in deep thought. trophy waits, he has to, anyway. or rather, he _wants_ to. he could easily pack up and head to his room, ruminate there - but then he’d be alone. he’d be alone with fewer answers than before.

yang sighs, and it’s become a signal for him to listen. he glances up from his tea beginning to steep, strains his ears and studies their face. there’s not much that can hold his attention, but when it comes to yang - he feels the urge to be attentive. that fact doesn’t sink in deep, doesn’t occur to him at all even as he’s with baited breath. 

“earlier..”

another face is made, their thoughts scattered without a way to convey a single one. they’re at a loss for words, searching for the rest of their sentence between the floor tiles. trophy racks his mind, tries to retrace every step, second to second, reliving it all through an imaginary playback. he doesn’t say a word, has been friends with them long enough to know nothing gets them talking more than being prompted with silence. yang grunts, exasperated, then continues.

“with yin.” is all that’s said. trophy swallows around a pit forming, wanting more in the face of nothing. they sound conflicted, or he thinks so - he can’t tell, it’s hard to differentiate between that and the frustration, but that’s not what he should be caught on.

“oh,” quiet and vague, like he’s acknowledging a comment about the weather. trophy’s mind is sent into a flurry, his effort is funneled into playing it off. “you heard that?”

“ _heard_ about, i wasn’t there,” yang corrects, sharp in the way that it punctures the strange film they’d both been encased in. puzzled by something unseen, contemplating for another brief second. they smooth out the delivery as if trying the line again, doesn’t elaborate this time, “i heard about it.”

trophy isn’t sure what to follow up with, what his best course of action should be. this whole thing is far from ideal, the two sleep-deprived in a practical stranger’s hotel, uprooted from their previous lives and put into another - and if he were asked, and if he was being honest, he’d have done more, because he’s a try-hard at heart. it could’ve been nice, it would’ve been less awkward and sense. 

trophy’s confidence falters. 

he takes a sip from his cup knowing it won’t be good, banking on his mind figuring everything out by the time he’s done. there’s nothing to be read from the tea leaves, or rather the tea bag, or - wait, that doesn’t make sense. trophy breathes out slowly, regaining his composure. with a glance to yang, he finds them staring expectantly. 

and it’s his turn to go, “what?”

yang, incredulously, “what do you mean _‘what?’_ ” 

exhaustion creeps, beginning to blur the corners of his vision. he blinks at their face, trying to mind-read to the best of his ability. admittedly, maybe he should’ve thought this out more, or maybe should’ve taken into account how unpredictable yang is, or that the universe is constantly trying to screw him over. 

“did you expect me to say something about it?”

“yes?” and it makes yang feel like the unreasonable one. it’s past midnight, they remember. keeping their voice down is an effort, but the tone is all the same. “ _yeah_? i do, is that so insane?”

“no,” quickly, blurting whatever his brain provides, “it’s just two in the morning, yang, and i’d rather discuss this when i’m - we’re more awake.”

it’s all nonsense, the signal between mind and mouth getting lost somewhere. trophy just needs to figure out a better approach, because they’re both looking for answers and neither are willing to take the dive and find them. he wants this to have a happy ending, desperately trying to wrap this up, to put a pause under the guise of something else. yang looks sad, something he doesn’t expect, for a split second before sighing. 

they look into their cup, trophy does the same. 

what they bled had flooded, and now it’s begun to drain. the tension isn’t entirely gone, only layered underneath the mutual understanding that - ‘ _yeah, it’s too late for this_.’ for the first time in the entire exchange, they both can breathe. it’s slow and overly-cautious, but the sense that this is going nowhere has been reached, and it’s finally understood. footsteps from outside of the room shake them out of it, reminding them that they’re not alone.

it’s not long before yang goes, “fine.” 

to which trophy responds with an equally tired, “fine?”

he’s feeling out the waters, wondering if he’d made the right choice - if he should’ve, could’ve, still could shoot his shot. not enough time has passed, he takes a drink to quell the cool air sinking past his skin, to keep down nausea born from unease. 

“that’s fine,” yang says. and, they’re quiet and growing quieter. years spent alone allowed them to grow familiar with how fate tends to treat them, there’s a tremor they can’t hide. similar to him, not that yang could know, they wonder if trophy’s someone they deserve or could even have after this. 

trophy can tell there’s more, an instinct fine-tuned. the color to their cheeks haven’t let up for a second, his notice is in silence. they wipe their face, trying to rid it of nothing, gesture only serving to guard. what’s said is muffled behind their palm, and trophy breathes in, barely catching the end. 

they both tend to butt-heads, being on the same page in ways that’ve only been troublesome. it’s never really been give and take, instead a competition spun out from trophy and yang taking, and taking. there are off days where it’s giving against giving, trying to out-do the other. and, trophy realizes, this is a case of the two of them waiting on waiting. it’s a cycle of something he can’t explain - but that doesn’t matter, because it’s being broken, and the loop is being leaped out of. 

what he gives, what he gave, it’s being taken, and they’re taking. there’s a natural push-pull the two have never been able to achieve, finally on opposite sides coming together. he’s never felt so tired, and so exhilarated, the high energy bursting under the skin throughout his entire body. 

his mind replays what was said, what they _could’ve_ said, but he has to make sure..

“what?” and the time of night weighs down, body suddenly heavy as it registers. everything is beginning to settle.

the hand over their face turns into a fist, as if to cover a cough instead. it does nothing for trophy, muffling the words further. he leans on the counter, tilts only the slightest bit as he strains to hear. there’s a new found intensity competing against the exhaustion. 

yang moves back as he leans closer, stopping just before hitting their head on the cupboard. his push is met with a pull, and he looks at them with eyes wide. being tired leaves his face blank, underneath it is emotion threatening, he looks through them.

“don’t make this awkward,” they mock miserably, put under the microscope. yang rubs at their eye with the hand, using it as a shield. pressed, “ _i do_ , that’s it - that’s _all_ i said. isn’t this supposed to be a morning conversation? what happened to that?”

and then they’re clamming up again, but trophy caught a glimpse of what was inside already. it reaffirms something he can’t place, something he can’t name, something he can’t believe.

“nothing happened,” he says, but it’s far from the truth. starstruck, even in the dim light growing dimmer, does yang have a glow. like the rising sun, like the moon in a new phase, day and night. trophy thinks, through the fog, that everything reminds him of them.

yang leans off of the counter, readjusts their hand and thinks. he can’t read into the motion as much as he’d like, always over-analyzing, searching, _taking everything he can get_.

“okay?” they pause, taking their turn to consider the options, the downsides and every possible way they could respond. as his expression changes, theirs does too. yang bites, despite knowing their own hunger, knowing their curiosity is insatiable. “you’re making that face, out with it.”

“nothing,” it’s a lie, a cheap and terrible one. trophy laughs to himself before shaking his head, this time pulling as they push. giddiness peeks out from the barrier between them, a smile dares to show. “just happy, i don’t know. i can’t be happy?”

it’s infectious, they find themself grinning too. there’s so much they could say, yang looks to the ceiling, neck sore from tracing lines between tile. part of them wants to thank him, but being appreciative isn’t their strong suit and both know it. they watch trophy yawn, and despite themself, they do the same. 

everything has been watered down, emotion steadily trickling. scattered showers and clouded skies, needing sleep is a downpour that seems to hit them together. 

letting go of the breath they were holding, yang takes the first step. they begin toward the sink to wash out whatever’s left while trophy spectates. he doesn’t tend to hover, but he can’t help himself - doesn’t think twice, doesn’t stop himself, especially doesn’t regret it when yang’s smile grows a bit. trophy trails after them once they’re at the doorway. 

his hand reaches the lightswitch right before theirs, fingers brushing and they stifle a laugh.

“don’t get ahead of yourself,” and it’s joking, playful in an attempt to disguise the dopey state they’ve grown into. they wipe at their face again, trying to hide their grin behind a palm.

it’s dark, then. as shadow casts over the both of them, he wonders what yang sees in him. they can only think similarly, but neither say a word.

“i’m not,” trophy says.

the two navigate down the hall in silence, colors muted and breathing quiet. yang’s conflicted as they walk, trying to gauge how slow to go. they’re unsure whether to slow, to drag this out, or give into the urgency, the need for the next day to come. at his door, both stop. there’s a short second of consideration.

“this is my stop,” trophy goes, holding onto the handle. his words are barely audible, not wanting to wake anyone, involve others in a situation already made catastrophic with just them two. the lights are off, but he can picture them rolling their eyes. “night, yang.”

hand on the knob, it moves an inch. the click, even when hushed, kicks off everything else.

“think you’ll be able to rest easy now?” they joke, lighthearted. and before he can reply, they’re gone, disappearing into the dark. he can’t help himself from waiting, listening for the sound of a door opening, then closing. it echoes, and he sits in silence before entering his room.

and it dawns upon him that his tea was left in the kitchen as the door closes, and another realization comes as trophy hits the bed face-first.

..he won’t need a thing to sleep, to rest easy - his mind is at peace, taking what he can get, holding onto the answer he’s been waiting for.

trophy swears to himself that he’ll give all that he’s got.


End file.
